The Mothlight Guardians

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Dimensions: 6000 x 4000 pixels 300 ppi / 13.33" x 20"

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Once upon a time, in a land where dusk never fully surrendered to night, there lived a gentle fairy named Elyra, keeper of the Mothy Vale—a realm hidden between the folds of dreams and forgotten lullabies. Her wings shimmered like pressed autumn leaves, their veins etched with stories of every wish whispered by a child who had ever believed in magic.

Elyra had once been a mortal woman, the daughter of a clockmaker who crafted timepieces so perfect they could almost hold back sorrow. When the great sorrow of her village came, a long winter of silence and lost laughter, Elyra prayed beneath the oldest oak for warmth to return. The tree, ancient and kind, offered her a gift and a burden: wings to guide lost dreams back to light, but a vow to never again walk wholly in the mortal world.

And so she became the guardian of fleeting things - moths, butterflies, forgotten hopes -and tended to the delicate thread between worlds.

One evening, as the twilight mist curled around the chapel spires, Elyra heard the faint cry of a child drifting across the veil. Following the sound, she found a little girl alone in a withered garden, clutching a wooden rocking horse carved with flowers now faded by time. The girl’s name was Ameline, and though her eyes were wide with sorrow, her spirit gleamed like a small star refusing to dim.

Elyra took the child’s hand and promised her sanctuary in Mothy Vale, where butterflies carried dreams from sleeping hearts and no tear fell without turning into a petal. Under Elyra’s care, Ameline grew to smile again, her laughter calling the brightest moths to dance in spirals of golden dust.

But magic, as all stories tell, comes with its tides. To remain in the Vale, a mortal must one day choose: to return to the waking world and forget the fairy who loved them or stay forever, and become part of the dream.

When that day came, Elyra stood beside Ameline beneath a sky of fluttering wings. The child, now wise beyond her years, placed a small hand on her guardian’s and whispered, “Then let me dream.”

And so she did.

To this day, if you wander beneath old oaks when dusk begins to hum, you may see two figures: a fairy with autumn wings and a small girl riding a wooden horse, watching over the border between waking and wonder, where every lost dream finds its way home again.